


the truth is rarely pure and never simple

by lyrawinter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Art, Atmospheric, F/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24660907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrawinter/pseuds/lyrawinter
Summary: Sansa didn’t believe in ghosts; not in the traditional sense. She didn’t think there were incorporeal presences trapped in this world, dragging objects or turning on radios or TVs, or making noises that sounded like a howling breeze. But she believed in the ghosts everybody carried with themselves. In the memories that haunted us. In how something apparently anodyne could make us relive things that happened in the past.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be completely honest here. This idea popped into my mind after watching the trailer of Rose Plays Julie. The movie looks too dark for my liking, but the trailer was so evocative and mysterious. I don't know how, but this story just came. It will probably be very short, and it will consist on some interactions between Petyr and Sansa trying to read each other. If you've read my previous stories, you'll know that I always tend to soften Petyr, so I'll probably do it here too. 
> 
> I don't know how often I'll update. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. Thanks for reading! :-)

_The truth is rarely pure and never simple._

Oscar Wilde.

_2020_

She’d never been on this island before. It was big, over 800 miles by road. She was on an East Coast town known by the spice gingerbread loaf, the emerald mockingbird (a bird that could be only found here) and the brown ale. The town was also popular because of its cliffs, the highest in the entire country; the heavy rain; and the large forest, where the trees were so big that the sunlight barely reached the floor and the deepest part was said to be haunted. There were rumors about ancient spirits, and curses, and mysterious lights at night.

Sansa didn’t believe in ghosts; not in the traditional sense. She didn’t think there were incorporeal presences trapped in this world, dragging objects or turning on radios or TVs, or making noises that sounded like a howling breeze. But she believed in the ghosts everybody carried with themselves. In the memories that haunted us. In how something apparently anodyne could make us relive things that happened in the past.

But sometimes, the things we didn’t know also haunted us. The secrets others hid from us. The silence that surrounded a name, an event. It was worse if you had the feeling that the secret was big and dark and unsettling, and if it was your family who hid it from you.

You debated whether you should try and find the truth or pretend it never happened. If you should stop thinking about it and move on with your life, or investigate, and find clues, and solve the mystery at all costs.

The part of you that desperately wanted to choose the second option won.

And you ended up in a hotel room, on an East Coast town, a place where no one knew your real name was Sansa (not Alayne), and your original hair color was auburn (not brown).

*

The first thing she did after setting foot on the hotel room was to look at herself in the mirror. She’d died her hair a week ago, but she was still unable to shake off the feeling that this, the image she was staring at, wasn’t her.

It wasn’t, in a sense. Now she was Alayne Stone now, a 23-year-old self-taught painter in search of a good opportunity to sell her paints. She’d been living abroad for 5 years and came here in hopes to meet Mr. Baelish, the current owner of Tully Gallery. He was here to inaugurate the exhibition “The secrets we hide in the art.” The title couldn’t be more suitable, this was the first thing Sansa had thought when she learned about it on the internet, while she was still abroad. Then she’d found it strange there was no information about the artists or the paintings that would participate in it. 

Like Alayne, Sansa was 23 and she’d been living abroad for five years, but she’d spent those years studying at a conservatory. She also liked painting, though she’d never tried to sell any of her works.

(The easiest way to sound convincing was to sprinkle some truth on the lies).

She’d come home 2 months ago and left a week ago (before dying her hair). She told her parents that she’d found a job at a small music school.

Sansa had found the name Alayne in a book for children. She’d said it aloud, slowly, to see if she liked the way it sounded, and also to see how her mind reacted to it. After all, she’d spend a long time using it, if she finally chose this name. She needed to be sure it was the right one. Alayne. She liked the way it sounded, and it made her think of strong and confident women.

Alayne.

She’d looked it up on the internet later (she didn’t want to use a name no one had ever heard of) and learned it had been quite popular a century ago. Good. She knew Stone was one of the most popular last names nowadays, but she looked it up regardless, just be sure. She couldn’t be too careful. 

She wanted to catch his eye, but she intended to be subtle. She wanted to intrigue him, a faint glimpse of curiosity at first, only to end up bewitching him at the end. Her goal was to trick him into saying her what she needed to know.

(She hadn’t planned what she’d do afterwards, if he ended up telling her the truth. For now, she just wanted to know).

She stepped away from the mirror and kneeled to open her suitcase. Her fingers trembled slightly when she reached into the hidden compartment. 

She pulled out all the newspaper clippings she’d been storing throughout the years and spread them across the carpet. 

**September 2015**

**_Lysa Tully, the founder and owner of Tully Gallery marries her childhood friend Petyr Baelish_ ** __

_“It’s a dream come true. We hadn’t seen each other since almost twenty years ago!” The founder of one of the most famous art galleries in the world confesses exultant at the church._

**September 2016**

**Petyr Baelish, the new director of the Tully Gallery**

_Lysa Tully had given a press conference this morning to announce the news._

_“I haven’t named him the director because he’s my hubby,” she said giggling. “Petyr is really the best for the post of director. He holds a Master of Economics summa cum laude, and he’s well versed in art. No one else could do it better than him.”_

**January 2017**

**Sweet Christmas Holiday for Mrs. And Mr. Baelish**

_Tully Gallery grows 15% and enters the world’s top art galleries._

_“The Tully Gallery couldn’t be in better hands,” Lysa said with teary eyes when we asked her in that regard._

**July 2017**

**Fatal accident at Tully Gallery**

_Lysa Tully fell from top floor at the Tully Gallery last night, during the annual benefit party. The autopsy report hasn’t been released yet, but several guests affirmed she drank several cocktails and the last time they saw her she couldn’t maintain her balance well._

_We have been unable to contact her husband, Petyr Baelish, but according to sources close to him, he’s devastated._

_“None of us could see that coming,” one of the people that works at the gallery tells us on the phone this morning. “It’s a tragedy.”_

A tragedy. Sansa stored all the newspaper clippings back into the hidden compartment. A tragedy for who. Certainly not for the Tully Gallery, which hadn’t stopping growing since her death. As for her family, her aunt and her mother had never been close. Sansa could count with her fingers the times Lysa had been at her home, and her visits had always made Sansa feel uneasy. She couldn’t say it for sure, but her aunt had always acted as if she hated her. As first she’d thought that Lysa was jealous of her because Sansa could paint beautiful landscapes even though she’d never taken classes whereas Lysa had spent a shocking amount of money in oil painting courses and she still painted like a 2-year-old child. (What Lysa didn’t know was that Sansa had spent a shocking amount of time studying impressionist painters and trying to imitate their style. Her aunt didn’t know how many canvases she’d thrown away nor did she know how many times Sansa had felt frustrated and wanted to give up).

However, Sansa had the feeling there was something else. You’re young and pretty, her aunt had told her once, when Sansa was a teenager, and it hadn’t sounded like a compliment.

Your aunt looked like a different person in those newspaper clippings. She sounded enthusiastic, and her smile was big and bright in every pictures Sansa found. The reason, she suspected, was the person that appeared next to her in every picture. 

Petyr Baelish.

He didn’t smile in the photos. Sometimes, Sansa brought the newspaper clippings closer and could see something gloomy in his eyes. 

She knew it wasn’t her imagination. 

Sansa had never met him. She was studying abroad when he’d met her aunt again. The news of her engagement had caught her off guard. It had seemed rushed. Sansa knew that Petyr had been fostered with her grandfather, but after a fight with Brandon (her mother’s boyfriend back then), Petyr had left. He’d met Lysa again 17 years later, during an art exhibition. What had happened afterwards was there, summed up in those newspaper clippings. Lysa had been married for 2 years. And she’d died 3 years ago.

The results of the autopsy report revealed high blood alcohol concentrations, and there was nothing suspicious, so the forensic pathologist ruled her death accidental.

Her family hadn’t wanted to talk about her death. None of them had been at the benefit party, but they accepted the results of the autopsy report without reservation. Since then, Lysa had become a taboo name.

And Petyr too.

“Why do you ask about him?” her mother had spat when Sansa brought up this subject, shortly after she came back home, 2 months ago.

“He was her husband. That makes him part of the family,” Sansa had replied, confused. She’d just asked her mother if she’d heard from Petyr after Lysa’s funeral.

“He’s not part of the family. He was briefly married with your aunt. After her death, the bond that linked him with us has broken. I see no reasons to speak with him again.”

Again. Her mother hadn’t spoken with him since his fight with Brandon. She hadn’t attended the wedding. Her mother hadn’t seen him since 17 years ago.

“Okay,” Sansa had said, even though it wasn’t okay at all. Petyr wasn’t a stranger to Catelyn. They’d grown up together.

Sansa needed to know what had happened between them. Why he’d gotten into a fight with Brandon. Why he’d gone years without contacting any Tully members and ended up marrying Lysa. 

She also needed to know if he’d hidden something from the police (the police had interrogated all the people that attended the benefit party). 

Sansa needed to find as much puzzle pieces as possible to form a figure that made sense. 

Her mother; her aunt; her uncle, who died several years ago.

All of them felt like strangers.  



	2. Chapter 2

The sign was big. Grey letters on a green background. There were no pictures of the paintings or the artists. Only these words:

“The secrets we hide in the art.”

Sansa stared at the sign, sitting in the car she’d rented, her hands gripping the steering wheel. The green was darker in the places where there were no written words. There must be some optical effect that made the shades of green look like tree leaves, and Sansa thought of the forest. She could see it from her hotel room. Wild and mostly unexplored. She couldn’t deny it: she’d thought about going to the deepest part and see if those legends held any truth.

She was about to meet him. Petyr Baelish. Her aunt’s husband. The man her mother considered a stranger even thought they’d been living in the same house when they were children.

She hadn’t come here in secret driven by morbid fascination. She had to admit that Petyr Baelish intrigued her. He was her uncle by marriage, but she’d only seen pictures of him in the newspapers and on the internet. Though that gave her some advantage. He’d never seen a picture of her (at least, she hoped so). Sansa had never used social media and she doubted her aunt had shown him any photographs of her. She even doubted Lysa had any photographs of her. 

She hadn’t come here in secret driven by morbid fascination, though she had to admit that Petyr Baelish intrigued her (but she would never admit it aloud). However, she wasn’t here to get to know him. Not solely, at least. She hoped he could give her the puzzle pieces she needed to understand her family.

She got out the car and walked towards the entrance. She didn’t zip up her jacket. The autumn was almost here but she came from a colder place.

She greeted the security guard standing next to the door and crossed the threshold. There were a few people waiting in the hall, some of them sitting on a bench; others reading an exhibition display board. The door to the exposition was still closed. The inauguration would begin in half an hour. 

Sansa approached the ticket office and purchased her ticket. Then, she turned around, trying to decide the best way to kill time until the door opened.

She considered the idea of attending the exhibition without knowing anything about it. There was something fascinating about stepping inside and let the paintings surprise her, about forming an opinion solely based on her emotions.

But then, she thought that there were many things she didn’t know already so she shouldn’t dismiss the opportunity to know beforehand the information written on the exhibition board. 

She approached it, the ticket still in her right hand. She stopped among and old woman elegantly dressed and a man around 30 with glasses and a long beard.

She began reading. Petyr Baelish had written it himself. There were some pictures but soon she realized that none of them were photographs of the paintings. Actually, none of them were paintings. They were book covers, movie scenes and sculptures. She stepped to the right as she read through the exhibition board, a smile slowly breaking across her face.

Clever, she thought when she finished reading.

She knew as much as the exhibition as before. Nothing. The exhibition board was a reflection on some popular books and movies about love, obsession and secrets. She had to admit that Petyr Baelish had a way with words. He knew how to entice you to keep reading until the end. There was some magnetism in the way he constructed the sentences, in the words he used, in the things he might be hinting at. Because this was the key, Sansa thought. If you looked deeper, you realized that he was being deliberatively vague, allowing you to reach the right conclusion. Or the wrong one. 

Judging by that text, he seemed the kind of man who liked to be subtle, who enjoyed planting the seeds and seeing how they grew up, or if they grew up at all. She should be careful.

*

The door opened only a couple of minutes before the exhibition began. 

Sansa looked around, confused. The room was small, and it was empty. The walls were white, and there were no windows, only a pair of red curtains in the background. They fluttered. Sansa directed her gaze towards it.

The curtains opened slightly, and a man showed up. He was wearing a dark suit and a faint blue shirt. His hair was short and grey, lightly darker on the top. Sansa recognized him right away. Petyr Baelish. Her aunt’s husband. The reason why she was here. 

Her heart skipped a beat, and Sansa told herself that it was because she was nervous, because there was much at stake.

His eyes traveled over the attendants, and they rested on her. The effect was immediate: her heart pounded against her chest. Sansa forced herself to lift her chin and held his gaze, trying to calm down. She needed to appear composed if she wanted to play this game.

“Welcome everybody,” he said. “As many of you know, I’m Petyr Baelish the owner and director of the Tully Gallery, and I’m here to present our new exhibition. The secrets we hide in the art. I know this is not the conventional way to present an exhibition.” His arm gestured at the empty walls. “But since we’re talking about secrets, I hope you all allow me to say a few words here. I’m not going to give a presentation. The information of each painting and the biography of the artist are beside each artwork. I’m just here to share a short reflection: Biographies, dates, description of the techniques are very useful, for sure. But I think we should distrust that information.” 

A soft murmur spread across the room. He smirked, as if expecting his words would be controversial.

“No one would put something too private in there,” he went on. “Their artworks, however… That’s entirely different. There’s something unconscious about art. I don’t know if anyone here writes, or takes artistic photographs, or creates videos, or sings. You made conscious choices when creating art, sure, but there are things beyond your rational mind, things beyond your control. You pour so much of you when you create something from scratch. Something similar happens when you stare at a painting, or a photograph, or when you read a book, or listen to a song. Perhaps you know things about the artist, or about the genre, or about the historic event. But there are things that artwork only will tell you on an individual basis. The sensations, the emotions a concrete artwork evokes in you. The things you can’t explain with words but you understand deep down. Abstract things. Or things you don’t dare to articulate.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “The things we leave unsaid reveal more of ourselves that the things we put into words.”

A heavy silence settled in the room. Sansa kept staring at him, the words he’d said echoing in her mind. The things we left unsaid. It was almost as if he was only talking to her. As if he knew who she was and why she’d come here. Or perhaps, he was talking to himself, Sansa thought. Perhaps he was talking about his personal experiences. Catelyn, Lysa. His words had resonated with her because there was a link between them, a connection. Her family. Neither of them would be here otherwise. 

He glanced around at the attendants once more, as if making sure they were mulling over what he’d said. This time, his gaze barely fell upon her. With a satisfied look, he turned to the curtains and opened them wide.

“Go on. There are two floors, and several rooms in each one. Feel free to wander, and if you’re interested in some painting, reach out to me.” He stepped aside to let them enter the adjoining room.

Sansa waited until some people stood in line before following them. She didn’t want to be neither the first one nor the last one. 

Her heart began pounding harder again as the people in front of her stepped through the threshold. She was coming closer and closer to him. She wondered whether she should keep her gaze straight ahead or turn to him.

Her body chose before she could make her decision. Her head turned to the left before crossing the threshold, and her eyes met his. His eyes were grey-green, and they were much more expressive than in the pictures she’d seen. A piece of paper couldn’t convey the emotions she could see in them now, with his body a few inches from hers, but she knew in that very moment that she’d been right. 

There was something gloomy in his eyes. It wasn’t her imagination. There was something that made her chest tighten, and she wondered if perhaps she hadn't made a mistake coming here. If perhaps she should leave now that he still didn’t know who she was. She was still in time to do so. She could look at a few paintings and walk away.

But deep down, she knew she wouldn’t.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are doing well :-) I'd like to warn you that this isn't a mystery story. It's rather ambiguous. I'd like the readers to reach their own conclusions as they read. Thanks for reading! :-)

Petyr Baelish didn’t stay in the first room. He went upstairs, perhaps to give them some privacy, to let the wander across the different rooms, watching the paintings and reading the exhibit labels, though they weren’t completely alone. Several security guards watched them, and it was ridiculous, but every time their gaze fell upon her, Sansa had to shake off the feeling that they knew who she was.

She explored every room, trying to pay attention at the paintings and read some information about them, but the images and the words vanished from her mind as soon as she turned her gaze away from them.

Petyr Baelish was all she could think of. She’d thought many times about their first meeting since she learned about the exhibition. The things she’d tell him, how he’d reply. She’d tried to imagine every possible outcome and thought about the lines she wouldn’t cross. She didn’t want him to catch her off guard.

She’d hoped his opening speech would give her some clues about how to approach him. If anything, she’d only reached the conclusion that he was hard to read, and that wasn’t good. If she couldn’t know what was going on in his head, how would she be able to decide the best course of action?

Thinking about it only was making her feel more anxious. There was no way to know if she was going to succeed in her game. The only way was to go ahead and be aware of the risks she was taking.

Finally, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She went back to the first room and climbed the stairs.

*

Petyr was staring at a painting in the background of the first room, his back turned to her. The painting depicted a lake; the artist had used the impressionist technique, but the style was darker than Sansa’s. From the distance, she could barely distinguish the water from the sky. An explosion of purple, blue and black swirling across the canvas. A feeling of chaos, of anguish pulling her in. 

Petyr’s words echoed in her mind.

_There are things that artwork only will tell you on an individual basis. The sensations, the emotions a concrete artwork evokes in you. The things you can’t explain with words but you understand deep down. Abstract things. Or things you don’t dare to articulate._

She wasn’t going to play his game. There was something about it that unsettled her, and she couldn’t allow her emotions to control her. 

She wouldn’t.

She touched her hair, a way to remember herself that she was Alayne now. She hoped she was correct and he hadn’t seen any pictures of her. Of Sansa, the girl that had studied at a conservatory, the girl whose life would be paused while Alayne was alive. 

She swallowed again and began walking. She wasn’t wearing heels, but her shoes clicked against the marble floor. 

Petyr didn’t turn away at the sound. As she approached him, the lake became blurrier, the water and the sky turning into thick brushes. The illusion vanished. She could analyze the technique the artist had used, now that she couldn’t see the agitated water and the stormy sky anymore. Perhaps she should. It could help her feel more at ease, erasing all the subjective elements.

She didn’t.

She stood behind him, leaving a small space between them. Petyr didn’t move at first. She could perceive a faint scent: seawater and mint notes. His cologne. His eyes were still fixed on the painting. Sansa started at the nape of his neck. She was sure he’d heard her. Maybe he was waiting for her to speak first. She opened her mouth, but then, he turned to her.

His eyes flickered. Slowly, he held out his hand.

“I think we have never met before,” he said, and Sansa noticed something in his tone of voice, something she couldn’t decipher. “I’m Petyr Baelish.”

“Alayne Stone,” she said, trying to sound confident. She took his hand.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“My mother’s name was also Alayne,” he told her.

Sansa froze, her eyes staring into his.

What was the probability that she chose the same name than his mother?

“I'd say this is such an extraordinary coincidence if I believed in them. But I don't. I think we were meant to meet,” he went on.

Sansa blinked, trying to shake herself out of her stupor. Perhaps this was for the best, she told herself as she watched his pupils dilate. She’d certainly caught his attention. 

“Alayne,” he repeated slowly, just like the first time she’d said it aloud. “Tell me, what have brought you here? Are you interested in purchasing a painting?”

“No. No, I’m a painter.” She wet her lips and saw his gaze lower to her mouth. “I have some artworks I’d like to exhibit in your gallery.”

“We have a submission guideline on the website,” he replied, his tone slightly amused.

She straightened and lifted her chin.

“I know, but I wanted to show them to you personally. Submitting a portfolio cannot compare to hold the original works in your hands.”

Her answer seemed to please him.

“What is your style of painting?”

Finally, something she could answer without hesitation.

“Oil painting. I paint impressionist landscapes.”

“Landscapes? Have you never painted people?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She furrowed her brow.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you know,” he replied, his tone dropping an octave. “Our choices aren’t casual. There’s always a reason behind.”

“I’ve been painting landscapes since I was a child." She shrugged.

“And you don’t want to step outside your comfort zone.”

Where were he going with this?

Petyr tilted his head forward. His eyes fell upon her hand. Sansa had forgotten that he was still holding it. Gently, he turned her palm up. His thumb dragged her sleeve up. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to pull her hand away, but she froze when he revealed her wrist.

In the center there was a small burn. A memory entered her mind. She tried to scare it away, but a sense of dread spread across her stomach.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, she felt his thumb brushing over her wrist, without touching her burn. It almost felt like a caress. 

“What is this?” he murmured. The amusement had left his face and his voice.

She thought of him, the boy she once had believed to be in love with. The feeling of dread grew more intense.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered.

At first, she thought Petyr hadn’t heard her. But then, she saw him nod.

He released her wrist and raised his head. Sansa swallowed when his eyes met hers. Had she ruined her chance to find answers?

“I’ll see your paintings,” he said, an inscrutable expression on his face. 

A flicker of hope filled her.

“On one condition,” he added.

She knitted her brow.

“Which one?”

“I want you to make a portrait of me.”

“What?”

“Nothing too elaborate. I just want to see what you can create in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours? I’d need several days,” she complained.

“I don’t mind if you can’t finish it. I don’t plan on exhibiting it. Take it as the way to get your work in my gallery.”

She didn’t pass over the tone he’d used upon saying _my gallery_. Possessive. Fierce. As if he were saying _this isn’t my wife’s gallery anymore_. Sansa wondered why he hadn’t changed its name, why hadn’t replaced it by _Baelish Gallery_.

“Do you mean that you’ll accept my artworks if you like your portrait? Without seeing them first?”

“Yes.”

Why would he do such a thing? It wasn’t a sensible thing to do. He risked exhibiting poor quality artworks. But perhaps he thought he could allow himself some eccentricity. 

His face remained emotionless as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to her.

“Call me when you make your decision.”

Sansa grabbed his business card, trying to process what had just happened. Petyr took a step forward and although there were still a few inches between them, she held her breath, not knowing what he was going to do next.

He just whispered a few words in her ear:

“Nice to meet you, _Alayne_.”

Then, he left.

*

Later, when she was sitting in her car, she pulled out his business card and her phone. She glanced at his phone number, then at the black screen of her phone. Was she really going to do this? Her mind screamed to stop this nonsense.

She breathed in and saved his number.

_Petyr_


End file.
